Today is my birthday. I have been told that I am older than dirt. It started Friday at school when I walked into a teacher’s class at the end of the day. The kids were watching “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” and snacking on popcorn to celebrate the end of CRCT testing week. One of the little boys brightly told me that Mrs. Robinson, their teacher, had mentioned that her mom loved this movie when she was a little girl. He then went on to say, in a loud voice, that the movie came out four years after Mrs. Robinson’s mom was born, in 1968. Mrs. Robinson’s mom was only four years older than ME???? While I was reeling from that little tidbit, the chatty little boy put the nail in the coffin, “1968! That is really, really old.”
I gathered enough strength in my suddenly ancient and arthritic knees to hobble back to my room and pack up for the day. My parents were coming to visit this weekend and I was looking forward to seeing them and to not being the oldest person in the room (thanks Dad). We were heading to one of my favorite restaurants, Greenwood’s, Sunday night to celebrate with chocolate cream pie…mmmmm. We drove to Roswell, with the boys promising to be on their best behavior, which meant there would be no blood drawn at the dinner table. As we turned onto Green Street, we were met with road closed signs and police cars blocking every street that would lead to Greenwoods. I began to panic a little that I wouldn’t get my chocolate cream pie. We followed detour signs and a row of cars, winding through beautiful neighborhoods and azaleas in full bloom. Lovely detour, but we got lost. One kind woman walking her dog offered vague directions back to the highway and we finally found our way to our destination almost a half hour later.
After being seated on the beautiful side porch of the restaurant, overlooking a lovely garden, I noticed that the restaurant was nearly empty. Now this is a restaurant that is packed almost every night, so it was a little strange. I asked why the roads were blocked off and the waitress answered that a national bike tour race was finishing up around 7:30. At ten minute intervals, a pack of spandex outfitted bikers whizzed by our porch, a blur of racing colors and flashing spokes. We had great seats and could heard the announcer commenting on crashes and cash premiums for the leaders of each lap. Eric proudly stated (cough *fibbed*) that he had arranged the bike race just for me, as my present. I rolled my eyes and smiled at his outlandish lie. My mom suggested that maybe a cute Italian biker would be a better gift, but I protested that they were all around 20 years old, way too young for me. But maybe two of them would be equal to a 40 something mom on her birthday. Hmmm, I might have to mull that over the last few bites of my chocolate cream pie…
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